


Rituals & Devotion

by Rifa



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Sex, Dark fic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Electrocution, Face Slapping, Forced Nudity, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Lyrium, Lyrium Brands, M/M, Magic, Navel-Gazing, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Racism, Rough Oral Sex, Sadism, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Sparring, Tevinter Culture and Customs, Violent Sex, Violent Thoughts, Virginity Kink, breeding mention, predatory behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22790830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rifa/pseuds/Rifa
Summary: Magister Danarius had been obsessed with the devotional tattoos of the ancient elves since a young age and now his life's work is about to come to a head as he prepares to infuse his own elf with lyrium. Danarius doesn't just want an elegant showpiece for academic study, nor does he only want the chosen elf to be a simple guard. He wants something more, and when Danarius wants something, he gets it.An unapologetically dark look at Danarius' lyrium ritual, his selection and training of Fenris, and every horrible thing in between. Take heed of warnings.
Relationships: Danarius/Fenris, Danarius/Original Male Character
Comments: 11
Kudos: 68





	Rituals & Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> \----> Please read all warnings and tags before reading!
> 
> Danarius is sadist, predatory towards a young Fenris, and unabashedly racist, violent, and demeaning towards his slaves. There are mentions of underage sex and underage rape (all characters within their mid-late teen years, no younger), sexual slavery, breeding and eugenics, implied suicide and so forth. Further chapters will deal with more and will certainly become more graphic - if you are uncomfortable with any of the above do what is best for you.
> 
> I don't know exactly how much of this fic I am going to complete at this time as I have been toying with this draft for a while in-between other projects. I may end up filling the other chapters with more broken-up tableaus instead of the straight narrative that this chapter has. . I will update tags and attempt to warn for specific chapters as needed.

Magister Danarius was not accustomed to compromise. He was a man of refined taste with a discerning eye. It was his right as the head of his family’s historical house to be surrounded by luxury, by the best and the most pleasing to his eye. When he decided he wanted something, Magister Danarius _got it_.

The regular pleasures and indulgences his class were afforded, the wine and the parties and the body slaves, had faded into the background as Danarius grew older. It wasn’t that he did not partake or enjoy these delights, he very much did, but with no heir and the path to Archon decidedly out of his reach, he had needed to carve out his own glory in the Imperium. For some magisters, it was new legislation, military conquest against the oxmen, or the ownership of lyrium mines and vast plantations. Danarius had decided on the most difficult and elusive of successes: magical scholarship.

Teaching and researching in the Circles and for private glory was by no means uncommon, it was simply the fact that the chances of making a name within it grew smaller by the year. But Danarius had found his passion in two unique fields, lyrium and ancient elves, and between the two was where he found his niche.

Danarius had grown up fascinated by elves and their lost culture. His father, bored of breeding hounds and horses, had taken up the breeding of elvhen slaves when Danarius was still young. His father told him of the stories of their lost kingdom before the Imperium bested them, pointed out the traits in each individual elf that lead back centuries, breeding for the large ears and strong-bridged noses that matched the fragmented murals and artefacts that remained. Danarius had poured over storybooks recounting their myths, collected history tomes and catalogues of elvhen artefacts. 

He had learned phrases in the elvhen tongue in preparation for an excursion his father funded to capture wild stock. His father had wanted to introduce less saturated genes to his breeding projects. Danarius watched in awe as the dalish elves fought, bearing their teeth and spitting insults as they were subdued and chained. Every bit unlike a tamed elf, the closest thing he would see to the elves of the centuries past. His father let him select an elf to keep as his own once it was broken. He had chosen a fair-haired male, fresh vallasin trailing from his cheeks to his collar bones. Danarius was fourteen at the time and was proud when his father hummed in approval of his choice.

It was nearly a full year before Danarius saw the elf again. His spirit had been cowed, his eyes dull and downcast, but he was still as beautiful as he had been out there in the woods. His hair had been shorn but remained sandy and fine. The vallasin was still bold under his warm skin, highlighting his cheekbones, his ears and his jaw, trailing under where his collar laid locked around his neck. The slave could have only been four or five years his senior. Young, but old enough to fulfil the needs he had been attained for, and the ones Danarius had spent the year devising for him. The slave served him well for three years, siring brood for Danarius’ father and bending to Danarius’ new and exploratory sexual endeavours. Although he was obedient and beautiful he had remained sullen, often unreachable, his eyes glazing over until he was mute and stupid. 

Danarius’ father explained that it was common for wild-caught slaves to die early, curled in remote corners of the estate like a dead cat. Even though elves were designed by the maker to serve man, the ones who defied it and lived free lives could never fully submit. They would always think of the past and it would eventually kill them, Danarius’ first pet was no exception. 

But the dalish slave had left an impact on Danarius, even as he moved on to healthier, more enthusiastic slaves. Danarius had studied the slave’s vallasin, connected it to texts regarding sacred tattoo work done in the elvhen cities, and it led him to the one tome that would fuel his obsession for years to come.

One speciality text, an academic piece that was collecting dust in a Circle library, contained the life’s work of one researcher of the ancient elves. Amongst the rehashing and theorizing of topics and pieces, Danarius had become familiar with was a collection of diagrams featuring traditional tattoos that had _possibly_ been done with lyrium.

Danarius had the work transcribed. Spent hours reading through the collected knowledge the researcher had pieced together. He tracked down the source of the designs, petitioned for years to be allowed into the archives where the ancient scrolls were kept. He researched everything he could surrounding it to learn more, everything he could find about elvhen uses of lyrium, of tattoos, and it had eventually led him to the fabled Dread Wolf.

The elvhen god of trickery had always been of special interest to Danarius since he was a boy. The god was able to step in and out of the fade, using his powers to outwit both friend and foe. He had been so enamoured by the character in his youth that the elvhen word for wolf had been the first he had learned. And he had discovered in his research, many years later, that one of the tattoo sets he had been so fascinated by was _devotional_ to the Dread Wolf. The designs, the careful arcs and branches, all echoed sacred designs for the god. 

It was only then that Danarius connected the tattoos to their real power, the one beyond the aesthetic and ancient lure they induced. There had been accounts of elves who were devoted to the Dread Wolf, who were able to follow their deity into the fade and back, all while their limbs glowed brightly in the night. The tall tale had merit alongside the tattoo’s designs, the suggestion of lyrium, and Danarius was made drunk with the imaginings of devoted elves glimmering in the dark as lyrium lit their limbs in the shadows of the elvhen temples.

This discovery was Danarius’ awakening, his calling, more than the simple research and the fiddlings with lyrium he had done over the years. The Dread Wolf had reached out across time and implanted a desire so strong within Danarius that he could think of nothing else. He wanted to _see_ an elf scoured with traditional lyrium markings. He wanted the fierce, deadly, boundary-destroying force devoted to _him_ in lieu of a false elvhen fantasy. 

He wanted it, and he always got what he wanted.

And finally, _finally_ , after what felt like a lifetime of research, preparation, tests and a collection of expensive lyrium, Danarius was ready to find his subject.

Danarius set out a call, first to his estate wardens and slave drivers and then to the local magisters and houses. He told them he was looking for a slave, a unique champion displaying strength in more than one measure. Whoever passed his trials and was selected would be given a boon and any master offering his own slave would be paid as well. The word went out and the preparations were set, Danarius only had to wait for the day of the trials to arrive.

He wanted an elf, obviously, but had decided to keep that to himself. Most slaves were elves, after all, but in keeping his project secret he had learned to hold all of his cards close to his chest, in case any should try and steal his glory from him. He knew the promise of a reward to the slave who willingly consented to his experiment would pique the interests of many. Slaves were not given opportunities, at least not ones they could always see the benefit of. What a slave could want that Danarius could give was an amusement he couldn’t wait to discover. Would they ask for riches, wine, women? What would a slave ask for in exchange for their life?

Danarius needed the slave to consent, the ritual for the tattoos would be too painful, too invasive, and too dangerous to risk putting his subject under any form of anaesthesia. His trials were set not only to verify strength as a bodyguard, but the willpower and resilience to withstand the inevitable torture he would need to endure.

The day of the trials arrived and Danarius was quick to reject a good half of the slaves that had gathered. He turned away the women first, uninterested in them for this purpose. He turned away those that had passed the prime of their age, for despite the experience their scars displayed, Danarius wanted his wolf young enough that he would not age before he was done with him. He sent away the obvious: the scarred men and rough slaves with missing fingers and teeth. Danarius chided his slave drivers for even allowing them to stand before him. 

What remained was a collection of men, both human and elf, that stood in his training yard eagerly buzzing with the chance to make _something_ of themselves. Most were of a fighting stock, guards and fighters in his or his peers' houses. A few gladiators stood, an offering from another house, labourers, hunters, all men who worked their bodies in their servitude and had different measures of strength to display for it. Well, Danarius had asked for a _champion_ , hadn’t he?

But among the elves there was one who stood out immediately. He was young, lithe and athletic. Couldn’t have been older than fifteen, possibly younger. He had no armour, no practise weapon at his side, and his eyes met Danarius’ before quickly remembering himself and looking away. His eyes were green, deep green, the green of the thick foliage of Par Vollen. His skin was sunkissed but undamaged, his hair an auburn that lit like fire where the sun caught it.

Danarius’ eye lingered on him as he passed, admiring the arch of his ears, the strong ridge of his nose, the cut of the bones of his face. He was of a quality. Where was this slave from?

“One of yours, Magister,” His driver informed him, double-checking his ledger. “He and his twin have been working out of the annex building, the old house on your estate sir.”

It explained why Danarius had never spotted him, he wouldn’t have forgotten a face like that gracing the halls of his newer estate. The annex was old, kept for its function and history.

“He has a twin?” Danarius imagined a matching set, two wolves to walk at his back glistening with lyrium.

“She’s in laundry, magister,” The driver answered, sensing Danarius’ immediate loss of interest. “They aren’t identical or anything, it was just two rabbits for the cost of one.”

The first trials were health screenings, Danarius’ hired healers looking over each slave after he had stripped to his smallclothes. Many men were cut, deemed too unfit or unhealthy for what they believed Danarius was planning to do to his winner. The green-eyed elf was all limbs out of his clothes, his skin soft and unmarked as it soaked in the sun’s rays. He was lithe, of course, but his legs and arms had a definite tone from whatever work it was he did on Danarius’ estate. He was healthy enough to continue, although a healer noted that it was evident that he was not yet done growing.

Danarius imagined the lyrium welded to his bones, threaded through his skin and hummed. His trials on nugs and street dogs had shown a disconnect between the lyrium and their bodies. The lyrium was not an ink that stained and remained within the skin, it was its own entity, it demanded its own energy and pathways and connections like a second nervous system. A body that would grow alongside it would prove to be a better host.

It was worth consideration. But first, there were the combat trials.

Danarius’ trainers came out and divided the men into groups. The trainers each ran a group through drills, starting with warm-ups, basics, then progressing into more and more demanding forms and exercises. Danarius watched with idle interest from his chair, sheltered from the midday sun, the men grunting and damp in the heat. Occasionally a trainer would reject a slave from the group, sending away ones who couldn’t keep up or showed some fatal flaw. Danarius had been seen to instruct his team to only send away the ones _completely_ unsuitable, Danarius would have the final say, of course.

The exercises went on and Danarius noted a few who piqued his interest and let the driver at his side mark their names for now. He noted the young green-eyed elf as he waited for his turn, eyes narrowed as he watched the trainers run the others through their tests. He shadowed their actions in hidden, minute movements, just enough to learn and prepare for his trial. Danarius wondered if it was an unfair advantage, or if the elf was just _that_ clever and resourceful. How badly did he want to win this prize?

The young elf did not impress immediately in his first trial. He was eager but unrefined in his movements, his lack of training evident as he followed the trainer’s orders. The other men around him, larger and older and much more experienced, seemed to dwarf him as he fell behind. Danarius watched him closely, how the young elf noticed himself waning and pulled through, matching the forms of the men around him as closely as he could.

At one point a trainer approached him and Danarius mused if he would cull the young slave or not, considered if he might wave the trainer off and allow the elf to continue. The elf noticed the trainer approaching and simply worked _harder_ , sped up, kicked _higher_ and punched _stronger_. The trainer watched him for a moment, leaned in to correct his stance and moved on. Danarius took it as an endorsement, his trainer had seen something in the boy worth _instructing_.

The throngs of men had thinned, yet still Danarius was overwhelmed with the possible candidates. He took turns watching the men who caught his eye, imagining how the markings would look across their skin, etched into their limbs. He imagined them as his shadow, following his every step, guarding him in the magisterium and following him to every social event. Many of the men were plain, unremarkable, and the more Danarius looked upon them the more he considered how he would _prefer_ a slave that was easy on the eyes, at the very least.

The trainers tested each of the candidates on their weapon proficiency, letting them select their preferred weapon or using the wooden practise ones they had brought with them. Some displayed a lifetime’s worth of guard training, their wooden swords singing as they thrust and slashed through their forms. Others had clearly never held a weapon in their life, stammering as they selected a weapon, struggling as they swung at imaginary enemies. The trainers culled these almost immediately, only correcting and encouraging the ones whom they saw actual potential. Danarius wondered if the trainers were thinking of attempting to recruit some for the guard.

Danarius watched the green-eyed elf curiously as he pulled a wooden broadsword from the weapons rack, as if he did so every day, and tested out its balance. He swung it in what appeared to be practised if unrefined, swings and thrusts. The driver beside Danarius made a sound of disapproval, scrawling something down on his papers as Danarius smiled. The boy probably worked doing labour or custodial duties, his ease and comfort in swinging a blade were certainly from him swinging tools out of sight of the drivers that would lash him for it. 

The elf was willing to risk a punishment to be here. Danarius found himself more and more interested as his trials continued.

The other men fell into the background as Danarius kept his eyes on the boy. Watched as he passed the weapon trial and moved on to the actual combat. He fidgeted with his practice sword nervously as he watched the bigger and stronger men clash in the makeshift ring. His eyes were wide, nervous under his auburn hair, flinching slightly when one of the men dealt an intense blow. He seemed in over his head, too young and too inexperienced to be thrown to these wolves, and yet Danarius didn’t see him falter. He expected the boy to sink to the back of the group, pretend to be invisible, slip out unseen before he could be beaten in the ring. 

“What’s that one’s name?” Danarius asked, gesturing to the boy as he waited to be selected for the next fight.

“Uhh,” The driver squinted against the sun, ungraceful in speaking but at least talented in handling slaves. “Leto, I believe, stupid name.”

Danarius blinked slowly, ignoring his driver’s personal opinion, “What’s his disposition?”

The driver paused, clearly surprised by Danarius’ interest, “He’s a hard worker, thinks he’s smarter than he is though, you know how they are at his age. He listens well enough so I’m sure he’ll grow out of it, or I’ll beat it out of him.”

Danarius licked his lips and the driver chuckled quietly to himself, both of their attentions firmly on the boy, Leto, as he stepped into the ring. His hands were trembling, but he squared his stance, bare feet firm in the sand as the trainer carefully selected another elf of his approximate size as his opponent. 

While their physiques appeared equal it was clear the other elf had more training and practise with the wooden sword in his hand. He was a few years older than the one Danarius had come to fancy, but had an unfortunate face. Perhaps his nose had been broken one too many times during his training. 

The two elves squared off and waited for the signal to begin. As soon as the trainer signalled, the Leto launched at his opponent, his broadsword just missing the target as the other elf danced back in surprise. Leto continued to swing, making up for his lack of finesse with raw energy and spirit. Their wooden blades clashed, echoing in the courtyard. Leto faltered as the other elf parried, the force of his blows unexpected. He skipped back on light feet, regained his stance and tried again.

The other elf, however, had adjusted to Leto’s wild repeated attacks and landed a blow at the boy’s ankles. Leto toppled to the ground but rose as fast as the dust his body had kicked up. Danarius was impressed. A few more parries and Leto hit the ground again, groaning when he shoved off the ground again. His elbow had been knocked, the dust from the sand beneath them packed on his soft brown skin, but he didn’t show any resistance to use it. He swung and thrust, always met with a defensive parry, but he never gave up.

Finally, the trainer called the match in the opponent's favour once Leto had landed hard on his back and didn’t jump up quick enough. Danarius watched the boy where he lay on the ground, his eyes wide at the sky as a distinct look of panic settled on his features. He had failed, he had lost, and the quick rise and fall of his chest told Danarius everything he needed to know.

“Don’t cut him,” Danarius called, the trainer turned with a confused frown. “Keep him on. I would like to see more.”

Leto sat up and stared in awe at Danarius. Gratitude plain upon his face as he jumped back on his feet and brushed the dust from his clothes. It warmed Danarius, the boy was stunning if nothing else, but his spirit and his willingness to throw all of himself into what he was doing kept him in the running. 

Danarius had hoped to see how much punishment Leto could withstand, and of course, he always got what he wanted. 

The fights continued and more men were culled. The winners, and Leto, faced off against each other again. This time the trainers were to decide not based on who won but who showed the most potential as a fighter. Leto appeared less nervous this round, measured and focused this time. Danarius wondered if he was putting on a brave face knowing he had caught his Master’s eye, the boy certainly seemed eager to please. 

The trainer set him against a human, a full head taller and twice as wide. Leto did his best to mask his fear, even if Danarius could sense it in him, and stepped into the ring without hesitation. The human chuckled as he readied himself, clearly believing the round was already his. The joke was on him, Danarius was ready to cull him for simply being ugly and stupid.

Leto faired about as well as could be expected. He absorbed blows as much as his skinny, still-growing teenage body could. He swung and made a few hits that barely registered on the larger man. He hit the ground repeatedly, groaning and gritting his teeth before getting back up, bruises already blossoming under his skin, and fighting back. The man was never knocked off his feet, despite Leto’s admirable efforts. The match lasted an entire three minutes of pummeling and hard hits before Leto shook on the sands, unable to stand.

“Take the elf to the healer,” Danarius instructed the driver at his side. “I wish to see more of him.”

Leto was dragged up from the ground by the back of his shirt, like a frightened rabbit pulled in the maw of a wolf. But despite the bruises, the braises oozing blood and the trail of it from his nose down his chin, Leto did not whimper. He did not cry, as Danarius had seen so many his age do when dealt a quick whipping. He took it on the chin, holding it high as he limped off to be healed up.

The trials continued. The next round was a test of mental fortitude and willpower, tested by one of Danarius’ apprentices who would subject them to sustained low-power magic. Just a bit of lightning, nothing extreme. Just enough to see how long it took them to fold.

It was a trial he had seen practised in the Tevinter military in Seheron. They had to be ruthless to their military personnel and the warrior slaves they deployed there, and it had made a lasting impact in Danarius’ memory. He knew how long was required to be considered viable to fight against sarebaas in the jungle. He wanted to see how much _further_ he could push these candidates.

Danarius selected the first candidate, a strong-bodied but slow-witted human, and had him step up before his apprentice. The apprentice was about a year from leaving his side to take a position teaching young students at a military circle. It was good practise for her. 

It was clear the human slave did not know what to expect when he stepped towards the mage. He looked from her to the combat trainers dumbly for instruction, but Danarius did not want to issue any command. He wanted to see how his candidate would fair without it. This slave would be an example, the warning issued to the ones watching.

Danarius’ apprentice lifted her hands and the weak lightning pulsed through the slave’s body. He cried out, in both surprise and pain, but squared his feet and gritted his teeth as the lightning raked through his body. The apprentice held the magic in the slave’s convulsing body for three solid counts before releasing him, as Danarius instructed. The slave trembled and fell to a knee, his eyes full of fear and confusion as he looked back up to the apprentice, to the combat trainers, and then to Danarius.

“Stand,” His apprentice ordered, voice impartial. The slave stood on uneasy feet, nervous as he watched her raise her hands. The same magic pulsed through him again, holding him fast in place as the electricity jumped through his muscles and bones gleefully. It was painful, but not so much so that a strong warrior would not be able to withstand it. Danarius needed a slave that could see this pain through.

Danarius’ attention waned after the second application of the spell. Four counts this time, each implementation would increase the count by one, once the slave held to the magic for eight beats they would restart at three again, but with stronger magic. Tedious, but necessary. This slave was already proving too weak to handle the pain and Danarius was more interested in Leto’s return.

Leto was healed up, although there was still dried blood about his nose, and his eyes were wide in apprehension of what was taking place in the courtyard. Danarius smiled, he was going to enjoy this no matter the result.

The human slave fell to the ground and begged for mercy after hitting six counts. Pitiful. Danarius waved for him to be culled, knowing that mental fortitude would be required for his ritual. He could forgive and train a slave through the pain if necessary, but an ugly human was not worth that sort of trouble. 

Danarius called another to stand the trial, this time a handsome elf who had faired well in the combat trials. He was older than Danarius would prefer for a devoted bodyguard, he could see the elf’s deep crows feet from here but was still firmly in the running. He didn’t want to waste time on the lesser candidates and have the display wear down those still in the running. At least not too far.

Leto would have to wait.

The handsome elf withstood the magic well. It wasn’t until the fifth count in the second round that he made a sound that could be heard from across the courtyard, despite the electricity licking off of him and the tremors that remained in his hands when the magic ebbed. The sound was delicious and Danarius hummed his pleasure at it. He had nothing to hide and it had been a long day, perhaps he would take inspiration into his quarters tonight.

The elf made it to the third level of intensity before Danarius nodded his approval and sent him back in line. He limped and barely made it, the healer had to step in to ease the pain so he could stand without trembling. The others watched, eyes wide at the display of strength and pain, at a measure of how well they had to do to remain in the running.

Danarius considered allowing ones with second thoughts to leave. But his apprentice needed the practice, and it had been a long day for him. Why should he deny himself the little pleasures these trials offered? It wasn’t every day you had an excuse to run slaves through Par Vollen level training exercises. 

Another human was culled. Then an elf who broke into heaving sobs early in the trial was sent away, Danarius could only imagine that his master employed similar magic for disciplinary purposes, shame. Two more made it through, three others were sent away, and then, like a decadent dessert poised at the end of an eight-course meal, there was Leto.

He was standing alone, waiting to be called with his ears perked and his green eyes wide. He was fearful, as all of them had been, but he stepped up without being called. His hands were trembling and he had the look of a frightened rabbit frozen before the teeth of a predator. And yet, he stood as firm as he could, his still bloodied chin raised. 

Leto was beautiful. Danarius felt a surge of appreciation for this elf, the determination he laid over the fear, the way he clenched his small fists and his jaw and waited for the pain he knew was coming. 

“Begin,” Danarius heard his desire on his breath.

Electricity shot through the air and ripped into the elf’s small form. He went rigid, long limbs shocked into tight angles, his eyes wide until there was white all around those lovely pupils. One, two, three counts and Leto trembled and exhaled a whine. He blinked hard and stood, ready again, and Danarius smiled. 

Leto took the low level for eight counts, his voice cracking as cries escaped him, but he never faltered. He never flinched. He blinked away the tears that gathered in his eyes and held fast for the next wave of pain. Not as resilient as some of the others, but willing, determined. He _wanted_ to win, and that alone was enough for Danarius to guarantee him a spot for his final consideration. Of course, the others wanted it, fought hard as well, but none had the fierce fire that Leto had. None were the exquisite blank canvas that Leto offered with his youth. 

The young elf was heaving tears and hiccuping back his whimpers by the time Danarius gave him mercy. Leto would not have given up, he knew, and the beautiful agony of Leto’s face contorted in pain was almost too much for Danarius right now. He had a task to focus on. There would be time for that later.

Danarius allowed the candidates a break as the healer tended to Leto and checked on the others. He pulled his slave drivers and trainers aside to see their opinions about the four who remained, each giving small measured responses as they knew it Danarius knew better than them what was needed for his experiment. 

But Danarius had them there for a reason, he did value the input others could give when it came to fields that Danarius himself was not an expert in. He did not know a lot about warrior combat, about weapons training or how to measure potential for aspiring guards. Indeed, he was happy to have the expertise of the men around him. He had even scheduled meetings with noted slave training experts for the next couple weeks so he could best plan how to craft his perfect bodyguard.

This was to be his life’s work, his opus, he would not waste his time or money on anything besides perfection. He did not compromise.

The candidates were called back and the four of them lined up for another round of inspections. Danarius cleared his mind and stepped up to gaze upon these chosen four. He would conduct this final inspection himself, it would be the first time he would address any of them directly. He did not usually speak with slaves in this manner, the setting naturally formal and both him and slaves looking to gain something from the exchange. Usually, Danarius only spoke down to his slaves, orders and demands and punishments when necessary. He rarely ever allowed his slaves to respond. But this was different, and it almost felt exciting.

He went down the line, unwilling to allow the slaves to attempt to gauge their place in the running, and spoke to them one at a time. Similar questions. And often similar answers. The exercise would have bored him to death if he didn’t have the young elf that continued to pique his interest down the line.

The young elf stood out amongst the others. Shorter and smaller than them, the youngest of those gathered, if not the youngest that had attempted the trials. Despite this and all of the punishment he had taken during the trials, he stood with poise and strength in the line. An adorable display of pride at having achieved this feat. It was cute, the way his eyes lit up as Danarius approached him. The way he fidgeted with his fingers in front of him before correcting himself and holding his hands behind his back.

His eyes were mesmerizing where they looked up at him between auburn strands. Unique. Danarius was glad the slave already belonged to him.

“Your name?” Danarius asked, smiling despite himself, unable to burn out all of his affection.

The elf stared squarely ahead, eyes tracing the patterns in Danarius’ robes, “Leto, sir.”

Ah. That sweet little voice. Not yet fully broken by his blossoming manhood, warbling like a little songbird. 

“How old are you, Leto?” Danarius asked one of his last concerns. Danarius was not willing to wait for long to do his ritual, and while he felt that youth would be an asset to the lyrium brands, he would not jeopardize it on a subject too young to carry it. 

“Sixteen next month, sir,” Leto’s ears pinned back as he answered. He was nervous about that answer, but was clearly telling the truth. Danarius would have his driver validate it later, if true, Leto was of a perfect age.

“And what is it you would ask for your boon?” Danarius could not help but reach out and gently trace the boy’s jawline. He stiffened under the touch, a nervous breath hot on the air. How had no man touched him yet? “Tell me so I might consider it.”

The boy, Leto, met his eyes nervously once, twice, almost a third time as he worked up the nerve to ask. Danarius waited patiently, curious to the elf’s sudden resistance and anxiety. Neither had shown during the trials and the other contenders had only hesitated the polite amount for a slave voicing their desire.

“My mother and my sister,” His voice was quiet, breaking delicately in an adorable display of his youth. “I would ask for their freedom, master.”

Danarius blinked. _Interesting_. He turned to the driver who followed him with the ledger and his notes, “Mother?”

“Laundry,” The driver was writing down Leto’s request, he did not need to reference the ledger to answer. “She was an acquisition from Seheron, part of your share from your first tour. Her brood were quite young then,” He looked up from his notes, his sharp eye made Leto flinch. “Twelve? Eleven years ago? You remember Seheron?”

Leto set his jaw and gave a minute shrug of his shoulders. He either could not, or he would not. Curious. The exotic little elf seemed a trove of complexity, thoughtful and restrained for his age. Most male slaves approaching their maturity either rebelled, pushing their boundaries, or wilted further into pathetic, passionless obedience. Leto had not fallen into either trap, his intelligence and personality plain in his wide eyes. 

“Very well,” Danarius collected his thoughts as Leto blinked up towards him meekly, “Your request is noted.” He wanted to ask the boy a million questions, but each he thought was revealing of his ulterior interests in him. There would be time, whether or not Leto was his champion, there would be time. 

The boy allowed belonged to him, he reminded himself, there would be time.

“Disrobe, elf,” Danarius ordered, smirk pulling on his features as he turned to the others in the line, “All of you, disrobe. I shall see everything the maker saw fit to give you before I make any decisions.”

The drivers and trainers looked at each briefly before urging the remaining slaves to follow the order. Danarius remained in front of Leto, a mere step away from him, watching with the softest smile he could manage. Leto blinked up nervously but began to undo his tunic as Danarius met his eyes. He measured the expressions that flashed through Leto’s unsure gaze before he remembered himself and averted his eyes. He was nervous, of course, what teenage boy wouldn’t be in this situation? But Danarius also sensed excitement, anxiety, eagerness. 

The tunic pulled away to show the warm skin of his chest. His body thin but muscles showing already, subtle in the way even the strongest elves look. Leto’s ears pinned and he flushed from the tips of his ears down to his neck when he saw Danarius’ gaze roaming over his skin, over the small dark nipples and the delicate hairless trail from his navel down to his waist.

Leto hesitated a brief moment before he yanked down his trousers and pulled them off his ankles. His legs were long and thin, as were his arms, akin to the trembling colts Danarius’ family continued to produce from their stable until his father passed. He would grow into them, this he was certain of. But even so, he couldn’t help but appreciate the boy’s smooth thighs, the defined muscle at his calf before it sloped down to his ankles and his dark elf feet.

The others in the line were already nude, relaxed and waiting for the final inspection. They were older, had more time and experience to become comfortable in their nudity and a Master’s attention to them in this vulnerable state. Leto’s further anxiety, his hesitation and the way his hands trembled told Danarius that he had not had such an experience before. Nudity had not been enforced or demanded from him. Danarius had dealt with elves who were damaged, who hesitated with learned fear the moments before revealing their naked bodies. This was not that, Leto had not been touched yet.

Finally Leto removed his small clothes and stood as strong and confidentiality as he was able to. He was completely bare and revealed, wearing nothing save for the simple leather collar around his throat that displayed Danarius’ rightful ownership of him. The young elf was stunning. Of course. His hands nervous fists at his sides, flexing what arm muscle he had, staring straight ahead as if Danarius were not standing right before him. 

Danarius exhaled. Leto did the same. Danarius smiled and let his eyes fall gently from Leto’s green eyes down his small chest to the sparse dark hair that etched a path to Leto’s half-hard cock. Ah. The boy was flesh and blood after all, it couldn’t be helped. Most elves were weak in the presence of a human master, it was only natural. 

The boy was average in size, which meant there was room to grow, but uncut. Danarius told his driver to make a note to have the boy circumcised, regardless of the decision. He despised foreskin on an elf, it was enough work to keep them clean and acceptable for use without it. 

Leto’s ears twitched further back at that and Danarius felt the urge to reassure him, to gentle down that fear. But no, that was for later. You cannot coddle a young elf at such a minor adjustment, they had to learn at some point that their body was not their own and that their master knew what was best for them. 

Especially if Leto were to become his champion.

Danarius circled him, noting the healthy swell of his balls as he rounded to his back and- ah, perfect. The elf’s ass was a sight. Perfectly round and perked, his spine naturally arching as Leto stood at attention for him. Danarius breathed slowly, managing his growing erection under his robes. There was nothing he wanted more at this moment than to instruct Leto to bend forward. To claw at the softness of his ass and wrench him open, to hear his cry of surprise as he inspected the tight virgin hole between his cheeks. 

Danarius was no stranger to deflowering elves, but the practice wears thin after a while. He had been gentle and broken in new bed slaves, welcoming them into their new purpose with the only cock they would ever know. He had also snatched up labourers and housekeeping slaves, ones he had verified were untouched, and forced them onto the floor, or against the wall, and violently took from them. But… Leto sparked that need again. He didn’t know if he wanted to grab him by the hair and force his way in, or stroke his face and tease his hole open with oil until the boy was begging for it.

Either way, Danarius was _hard_ under his robes. He strode from Leto, gave the others a brief glance as he passed and declared they were done for the day. His trainers, apprentice and drivers all knew the handle the next part of the process without him, sequestering the slaves and gathering all the information and data for him to look at in the morning.

For now, Danarius was starving and needed something to sate the beast that prowled inside. 

He waved off the driver who attempted to follow him, stalked straight to his quarters and found the elf he had tasked as a valet. This elf was stunning, of course, but Danarius prefered him to stay to his duties of maintaining his quarters and seeing to his needs. He started slightly as Danarius barged in, but bowed and nodded his understanding of Danarius’ request before gracefully striding towards what Danarius affectionately nicknamed the `` harem”.

The first stage of the trials had been completed and Danarius was rock hard. He stripped from his robes, tossing them unceremoniously to the floor as he considered the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that stormed in his head.

He had four candidates. All uniquely qualified to be his lyrium bodyguard. Everything he wanted falling into place and yet the pressure of choosing one and preparing every aspect needed for the ritual weighed on him. He was teetering on the edge of a knife, between glory and ruin.

Danarius’ valet returned with three elves. They wore nothing save for elegant silks draped from a single shoulder to a loose tie at the waist, ethereal even as the silk outlined the swell of their cocks. Danarius recognized one as a trusted favourite, but that was not what he was hungry for tonight. He selected one he had not yet used himself but had offered to many guests. This elf, whatever his name was, was small and thin with piercings at the sensitive tips of his ears. His hair was auburn, but his eyes were a dull mud and his face left much to be desired. He supposed that was why his previous master had his ears pierced in such a fashion, to distract from his dullness.

It did not matter. Danarius took up the short decorative chain that hung from the elf’s collar and pulled him forward. The elf parted his lips, lidded his eyes as if he were in heat. The others bowed their respects and left Danarius alone.

The elf was stripped and his cock erect before Danarius dragged him by his pierced ear to the workspace he kept in these quarters. He used it for late-night study and magic experimentation and, although this whore did not know that and had no way of knowing, he seemed to sense the direction his first encounter with his master was going to go.

Danarius pushed him to his knees on the bare stone ground. The elf pleaded something, but Danarius was not listening. He was barely present. He was back in the courtyard with the slaves and the trials and the sweating men fighting for the prize of devoting their entire existence to Danarius.

The elf screamed when the electricity entered him. Pathetic and weak. Danarius wanted him to swallow up and take the pain with grace as Leto had. He recalled his magic and slapped the elf hard across the face, “Take it, or it’s all you’ll take tonight _rattus_.”

Leto would take it, had proven it, the young elf looked much more beautiful in pain than this simple slut did. Danarius imagined the lyrium infused into that warm skin, trailing down his spine and disappearing between his cheeks, an invitation to his hole. Danarius’ cock was thick and wanting in his fist, aching at every whimper of pain the elf before him made, even as he imagined it was Leto on his knees before him.

Danarius pushed his cock into the slave’s mouth. The magic slipped away and the elf was eager to suck Danarius down if only to perform a task he knew and understood that caused him less pain. Fine, let the whore do his work, Danarius deserved to relax for a moment and mull over the decisions he had to make.

Even though he wanted Leto like this, gagging on his cock with his back arching enticingly on the floor, he knew that was not the only reason to make him his wolf. No. He could have Leto _now_ if truly wanted him for this and nothing more. 

Danarius wanted Leto to be his champion. His little warrior. Wanted him to be fierce and wild as he saw today on there on the sands as he bared his teeth and took every beating, every wave of magic, and only gave up when his body failed him.

Danarius pulled his cock out of the elf’s tight throat and slapped him again. The elf barely flinched this time. Good. 

“Over the desk,” Danarius ordered, even as he lifted the elf by his auburn hair and thrust him over the sturdy desk. The whore cried out but took his cue, gripping the wood as he lifted himself on his toes and arched his back. His hole already slicked, already relaxed and ready to be forced open. Danarius was particularly firm on how the elves he kept for this task were to be kept, always ready, no elf that was unprepared would ever be presented. 

The elf barely made a sound as Danarius forced his way inside of him. He imagined it was Leto over the desk, Leto squeezing around his needy erection, Leto trembling on his toes as Danarius gripped his narrow little hips. The whore beneath him turned to watch Danarius penetrate him but Danarius shoved him back down against the hard surface of his desk. 

Danarius had wanted elves like this before. But he had never denied himself the pleasure of taking them. He _always_ got what he wanted but… Leto and the ritual offered a special opportunity, one to turn an untouched elf with limitless potential into something even greater than an opus of Danarius’ study or a unique bodyguard.

Danarius had the chance to sculpt this elf into the perfect slave for him. Something unique and moulded for him and only for him. Something no one would be able to replicate, even if they stole all of his notes and made lyrium branded slaves for themself.

And if not, if Leto wasn’t the one for the ritual, Danarius would still have him. Like this, if he wanted. Whimpering and soft beneath him as Danarius pounded and pounded and _pounded_ and emptied his seed into.

The whore under him moaned and writhed as Danarius came, filling his slick gaping ass. Reality set back in and Danarius was exhausted. He pulled the elf around to lap up the last strings of come from his cock and sent him away. He staggered to his four-poster and collapsed, planning each and every step that would need to be made in the following days.

As sleep crept up on him he was struck with inspiration. He could see Leto in his mind’s eye, matured and strong, lyrium sparkling against his warm skin, ornate collar thick on his neck and the name that fluttered up from the deep recesses of Danarius’ memory. His childhood study of the elvhen language. His lyrium slave would be _Fenris_. The little wolf. His own personal Fen'Harel, small and collared as his loyal dog.

And Danarius slipped into sleep knowing that that always got exactly what he wanted.


End file.
